


The Witnesses

by vifetoile



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Gen, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 23:40:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13535022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vifetoile/pseuds/vifetoile
Summary: When Miguel returns to Santa Cecilia, not everyone believes his story. Experts are called in.





	The Witnesses

 

Miguel could not keep silent about his time in the Land of the Dead. He told everyone who would listen – his family, at first, and then all of the people of Santa Cecilia.

His family listened, because he had come back _knowing_ things that he could not possibly known – like the songs of Papa Hector, that had awoken Mama Coco’s memory. When he spoke of Tia Rosita, he put his hand on his chin in exactly the way she used to do – _exactly!_ When the marigold petals on the path had all wilted, Miguel swept them up and burned them in the fireplace with a reverence that was a little disturbing in one so young. He was still the bright and thoughtful boy he’d been before, but his family agreed – he was _changed_.

The good people of Santa Cecilia were less credulous. Miguel, they said, had robbed the mausoleum of their beloved De La Cruz – and refused to return the guitar. He told some cock-and-bull story about how it was _his_ family’s guitar – huh! Some people would say anything to get a treasure. He must have been up to real mischief on the night of Dia de los Muertos – that was the truth of his disappearance. And now he would spin any yarn to get out of trouble. Who could believe such a bald lie?

But the Riveras defended Miguel to a man, woman, or child. Miguel kept telling his story. And the turmoil around his reputation grew – to some, he was a little saint, a blessed pilgrim. To others, he was a thief and a liar and he should return that damned guitar.

And then there came the first Sunday in Advent.

Father Luis was a good man, on the whole. The clearest part of his vocation, to him, was his role of service to the community. The words of the Rivera boy was causing a rift in quiet Santa Cecilia. And his agitated flock kept coming to _him_ and demand that he weigh in on the matter.

“Well, it is possible the boy has had some kind of spiritual experience,” Father Luis admitted.

“But he is telling lies about Ernesto de la Cruz! What is Santa Cecilia to become if Ernesto de la Cruz is slandered?” came the reply. Always, the welfare of Santa Cecilia hinged on the memory of de la Cruz.

So on the first Sunday in Advent, Father Luis, in his purple chasuble, approached Miguel, who was walking homeward with his family.

After a little small talk, Father Luis said to the boy, “Miguel, your tale of what happened on Dia de los Muertos…”

Miguel turned and looked at him gravely. Father Luis cleared his throat. “Perhaps it is best if you do not taint the memory of Señor de la Cruz. He is something of a figurehead in our community.”

“His memory?” Miguel said – louder perhaps than he meant. “His _memory_?” Miguel repeated. People started to turn and look. “If de la Cruz wished to have a stainless memory, he should have lived a better life! He shouldn’t have murdered his best friend!”

The entire plaza went dead quiet. Even the Riveras stared at Miguel, and drew about him a little closer. Miguel had not yet publicly accused Ernesto de la Cruz of murder – on the advice of Abuelita Elena. Perhaps one thing at a time, had been her judgment. But the proverbial cat was well out of the bag.

Miguel gulped, and he started to speak – he raised his voice and addressed the crowd, Father Luis noticed, with the instinct of a natural performer. “Yes, he was a murderer. He murdered Hector Rivera and buried him in a pauper’s grave. And you should all know it!”

Senorita Esparza, who worked at the De la Cruz Museum and Tour, was the first to yell “Liar!”

Old Alejo Gonzalez, who tended the mausoleum, spat at Miguel’s feet.

“Give back that guitar!” howled his grandson, also named Alejo.

The Riveras drew around Miguel and hustled back homeward. Father Luis, looking around him, considered that this must have been what it was like in the early days of the Catholic church – schisms all the time, and just this exciting.

Father Luis evaded the questions and demands that came his way, entered his little apartment, and prayed for a time. Then, he began to compose three very important letters.

#

The first letter was to the Mother Superior of the Sisters of the True Witness, in the adjoining town of San Eduardo. She was a personal friend of the archbishop, but Father Luis was much too shy to contact the archbishop himself. Sister Consuela arrived on the second Sunday of Advent, with a younger nun in attendance, and a Miraculous Medal around her wrist.

The second letter was to a professor at the great University in Guadalajara. Professor Laurita Pescador had recently published a book on children’s psychology. Father Luis had not yet read the book, but his friends told him it was very good. Professor Pescador arrived the day after Sister Consuela, with many books and a tape recorder in tow.

The third letter was to a friend of Father Luis’ since childhood. The friend wrote to a friend, who called on an acquaintance, who asked a favor of another friend. The result of all of this was not yet to be seen.

Father Luis called Miguel into his office on the second Wednesday of Advent. Miguel arrived with his burly cousin Oscar – now Miguel had to be accompanied wherever he went, because the residents of Santa Cecilia called him a liar or jeered at him when he was seen on the streets. Alongside them were the visitors – pious or desperate people from out of town who had come to see the little saint, trying to touch his hair, or get him to tell them of his ecstatic visions. Father Luis was not sure which one was worse for the boy’s well-being.

Sister Consuela sat behind Father Luis’ oak desk. Professor Pescador sat at the window seat. “Ignore me,” she said, “I’m just observing.”

Sister Consuela looked Miguel in the eye. She asked him rather sternly how frequently he said his prayers, whether he had any saints that he favored. She asked him to tell exactly of how he had found himself in the Land of the Dead, and how he had found his way home. She brushed aside his story about Frida Kahlo and asked, had he seen St. Rose of Lima? The holy St. Juan Diego? Our Lady of Guadalupe herself?

“No-o-o,” Miguel said slowly. “At least, I didn’t recognize them.”

Sister Consuela’s eyes narrowed. Miguel quailed a little, and Father Luis pitied him – he remembered that look well from his own schooldays among nuns.

Abruptly, she switched tack. She asked Miguel about his family life, about his performance at school. She listened with interest as he talked about his mother expecting a new child, and how he had done well in a spelling bee.

When Miguel finished talking about the songs he was writing – with the help of Mama Coco – Sister Consuela inclined her head. “Thank you for indulging my curiosity,” she said. “Perhaps, Professor, you have a few questions yourself?”

Over his shoulder, Miguel shot Father Luis a look. ‘ _Did you really bring me here to be prodded like an animal in a zoo?’_ That look seemed to say. And Father Luis had to admit, the kid had a point.

Professor Pescador declined politely, and thanked Miguel for his time.

In the days to come, Professor Pescador visited the Riveras, and conducted what she called casual interviews with Miguel’s family. Her questions seemed very straightforward – was Miguel given to lying, or even spinning tall tales out of true events?  Had he, in the past, been preoccupied with death or dead people?

She then brought these questions to other Santa Cecilia residents, who said, Well, yes. A certain mariachi player admitted that Miguel had admired de la Cruz deeply – but then again, he added quickly, who didn’t?

Professor Pescador raised an eyebrow and asked a few more questions. Was Miguel known to have a vengeful temper? He didn’t seem violent, but had he ever spread gossip or lies about somebody living, to get back at them?

The third day of this, Miguel stormed into Father Luis’ office – with his cousin Oscar in tow. Miguel visibly composed himself, and then said, “Father, I would like you to speak to the professor. She’s prying into everything about my life!”

“I asked her to come for that precise purpose, Miguel.” Father Luis folded his hands in front of him.

“You asked her here! Well, ask her to stop. She’s getting on my nerves.”

“But Miguel, surely you understand – I thought it best to call in the experts to verify your story. For this purpose, they must confirm what I already know: that you are a truthful boy who would not make up a story to slander de la Cruz just for fun.”

“My word isn’t enough?”

“Well, you’re very young.”

“And so they’re your experts?”

“Yes, but there is a third.”

“Who’s she?”

“He. He should be here soon.”

“I hope _he_ believes me,” Miguel said, rather fiercely. He thanked the Father for his time, and returned home, no doubt avoiding more hecklers on the way.  

#

On the fourth Sunday of Advent, a new visitor came to town. He was a very tall man, very thin, with graying hair and horned-rimmed spectacles. He called on Father Luis first.

“You asked your friend Rafaela about me,” he said. “I am Tomas del Rio.”

Father Luis stood up and shook his hand at once. “I can call young Miguel here at once, if you’d rather…”

“Actually,” said Tomas in his quiet voice, “I’d like to call on Miguel at home.”

Father Luis did not deny him. There was something in Tomas’ eyes. Father Luis had attended on the dying many times – and the not-quite-dying. Those who had come back from the brink of death had a look in their eyes, something undefinable but present. Tomas’ eyes had that look. And, Father Luis realized belatedly, so did Miguel’s.

The Riveras were busy decorating their household for Christmas. Poinsettas flourished by the doorways, and the smell of pastries filled the air, mingling with the scent of shoe leather and polish.

Tomas said little as he looked around the household. As Abuelita Elena greeted them, Miguel ran along the courtyard, racing his dog – Dante, Father Luis recalled the name.

Miguel stopped in his tracks at the sight of Tomas. And Tomas stared down at him, as well.

Father Luis introduced the tall man to Abuelita Elena, who regarded him suspiciously. “He’s not another pilgrim or well-wisher, I hope,” she said. “This close to the holy day, we do not have time to entertain all the praying pious folk who want to bother us! Begging your pardon, Father,” she added.

“I would like to speak to Miguel alone, please,” said Tomas to Abuelita Elena.

“The boy’s old enough to speak to himself,” Abuelita Elena said, drawing herself up with pride. “Miguel! This gentleman has a question for you.”

Abuelita Elena gave them some cookies and a cup of coffee for the gentleman, cocoa for Miguel, and left them in the kitchen. She made small talk with Father Luis as well as she could. Both were intensely curious about what was said on the other side of the door. But as I am a narrator, I may follow there, and bring you along as well.

#

“I’ve heard about you, Miguel,” said the gentleman.

“What is your name?”

“Tomas del Rio,” came the reply. “I am from – “

“You’ve been there,” Miguel said. “The Land of the Dead.” He wasn’t looking at Tomas’ face, but his hands. In Miguel’s eyes, his hands were bone, disappearing down his sleeve. “Tell me it’s true! Am I right?”

“You are very correct,” said Tomas. He took a sip of coffee.

“Then you’re – I’m not the only one – isn’t it beautiful?” he asked the older man. “The towers, and the lights, and the colors? Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Tomas said. “It is very remarkable. I’ve heard about you, Miguel. Even in the city of Guadalajara, we have heard of you.”

“I know,” Miguel said. “We get pilgrims near every day now. Abuelita wants them to leave us alone. I – I don’t know. They keep wanting to touch me. One day, I sang a song for them, just because – you know – they come from so far away, they should have something – but that just made it worse. Some of them think I’m de la Cruz’ great-great-grandson. But I’m _not_ ,” he added fiercely.

“I see.”

“De la Cruz was a murderer. You believe me, right?”

“I do,” said Tomas. “But why don’t you explain everything from the beginning?”

Miguel took a deep breath, then ate half of a cookie to keep up his strength, and he began. It took a long time, because Tomas asked for details, and Miguel refilled his coffee and his own cocoa before the tale was done.

Tomas leaned his head on his hand when Miguel was done. “Incredible,” he said. “You are very brave, you know. And you have a big heart.”

Miguel shifted in his seat, a little uncomfortable. “ _Gracias, senor_ ,” he said. “But what about you? What about your journey? Do you – have you ever known anyone else who’s been there?”

“Once,” he said. “When I returned, a woman named Obdulia came to see me, and she was the one who told the world that I was telling the truth. She was very old then – older than I am now. She’s the only other person I knew.” He looked deep into his mug. “She has long since made the final journey there.” He took another sip. “This is very good coffee. My compliments to your abuelita.”

Miguel smiled. Tomas finally said, “My journey…”

Miguel nodded, leaned in a little.

“I was about your age when I went. A little younger, actually. But old enough to know better. You stole from a mausoleum. I stole an offering.”

“From who?” Miguel covered his mouth at once – that was a rude question, but he was just so eager.

“My sister.”

Miguel’s eyes went wide. Tomas went on, “I was born a twin, you see. My sister was named Judit. I loved her, but I was always a little jealous. She was a weaker child, from when we were born. My parents always took extra special care of her, and sometimes forgot me. But I liked to take care of her, too. I loved to bring her the comics I was reading, and read them aloud to her – describing every panel. She read them herself – and she drew the pictures herself. She was gifted with a pencil. When she died – “Tomas swallowed, and hesitated – “There was a picture of her on our _ofrenda_ , and one of her drawings – her best one. It showed Wonder Woman – do you know her?”

“Of course!”

“Yes. Wonder Woman, only she looked a little more like my mother. I was… well, I told myself that I was afraid it would be burned up by a candle. But really I was jealous. I stole it from our family’s _ofrenda_ , on the Day of the Dead. It was only four months after Judit had died.”

Tomas paused again. “What happened then, you well know from your story. I was translated into a spirit. My family members found me there. They were very upset with me.”

“Did you see Judit?”

“No. Judit was still in the Land of the Dead.”

“Because you stole from her _ofrenda_?”

“Because it was her first Day of the Dead as a departed spirit. She was… well, I’ll get to that. I needed her blessing, and no-one else’s, to return. So my Tia Isabella escorted me to the Land of the Dead, and she and her _alebrije_ showed me to the tower where Judit was staying.

“Judit was – I might not have recognized her. In death all her illness and pain had been washed away. She was strong and willful – and surrounded by friends, other young girls whose time had been cut much too short. They were trying on wigs, affixing new paper flowers to their hair, making dresses, all up to the last minute on the Day itself. She was so happy.”

“Was she happy to see you?” Miguel asked.

Tomas inclined his head to the side in thought. “Not as happy as you’d think. At first she thought I’d died, and was horrified. When she realized I’d stolen from her _ofrenda_ , she was deeply grieved – and angry! I’d never imagined she could be so angry. She thought she wouldn’t be able to journey home, and see our parents. She missed them so much. Tia Isabella – bless her – comforted Judit as I could not.

“And then…” Tomas’ voice grew wistful, “Judit didn’t want me to leave just yet. She took my hand – you know the odd feel of a skeleton’s hand! – and showed me to her favorite places in the Land of the Dead. Her favorite fountain, the studio where she could draw and draw and never get tired, the football field – how she had longed to play football! And now she could. She introduced me to her friends, and I told her everything that had happened to Wonder Woman in the last four months. But she wanted, desperately, to see our parents. I’m afraid I did not stay as long as you did in the Land of the Dead. Your adventure was much grander.

“Judit gave me her blessing, and I returned to this world. I put her drawing back on the _ofrenda_. I could not stop crying. It was midnight, and my parents wondered at me. But you are, again, much braver than I. It took me many years before I could bring myself to tell them the truth about that night.”

Miguel sat back. “Whoa,” he said. “I – I didn’t realize there were other people who’d made the journey. Did you… did you ever go back?”

Tomas shook his head.

“Did…” Miguel’s voice was very quiet. “Did you ever _want_ to go back?”

“To see my twin again? Yes, of course. But I’ll get there in due time. And besides, Judit is never very far from me.” Tomas’ smile was slow but warm.

Miguel looked at the man’s hands again – skeletal they seemed, but when he reached out a hesitant hand and touched Tomas, he felt flesh. It was very eerie.

“I guess you’re here for the same reason that Sister Consuela and the Professor came by,” Miguel said. “To try and make sure I’m telling the truth.”

“For what my word is worth, yes.”

“And Obdulia… she did the same for you?”

“Yes. She stood up for me. I did not have the same evidence that you have – the memories, that music that Father Luis told me of. Many people did not believe me.”

“What was her journey?”

Tomas gave him a look over his cup of coffee.

“What? You know as well as I do, the dead need their stories told,” Miguel wheedled. “Come on! I’m dying to know.”

Now Tomas lifted his eyebrows.

“Well, not literally dying.”

“Her story… I’m not sure you’re ready to hear all of it.”

Miguel, with a great effort, repressed the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m not a little kid! I’ve been to the Land of the Dead! I almost died, like, three times!”

“Very well.” Tomas looked Miguel in the eye. “She stole, deliberately, from the _ofrenda_ of a man who had committed a serious crime against her. She wanted to efface his memory forever.”

“He was that bad?” Miguel asked.

“That bad. In the Land of the Dead, he would not give her his blessing. The matter passed to a well-respected judge. You might have heard of him – Saint Felipe de Jesus.”

“The saint! Sister Consuela asked about him!”

“That’s probably where she got the idea. Obdulia told her story to a writer, so this version has made the rounds, as a novel.”

“Sister Consuela said something about theological, um, ramifications…”

“Don’t worry about that. The point is, it was through the Saint’s intervention that Obdulia returned home. And it was only by chance that a holy man was the arbiter, she was very quick to add that,” he remarked. “It might have been a former judge, or an Inca queen. Just chance.”

“What happened to the man? The one she stole from?”

“Obdulia didn’t say. Now, Miguel… have you made a statement to any of the local newspapers? I’ve seen a few reporters around the property.”

“ _Si_ … they want to talk to me, but my Papa and Abuelita both say I should say nothing. One of the reporters said he came from Guadalajara. That’s… I can’t believe it’s spread so far.”

“People are eager for news like yours. News that their loved ones still exist, and are happy, and that the rituals matter… if you didn’t bring de la Cruz’s memory into this, you might be a national hero. But you have to,” he added, as Miguel glared.  “I understand. He committed a crime.”

“A lot of crimes.”

“It might be best to give an interview. And in that interview, you could add that you and your family do not want more visitors.”

“I understand.”

“If you want, I can give you some advice, but I understand if you’d rather not.”

“Thank you very much, sir.” Miguel got to his feet and shook Tomas’ hand.

“And now, how about you invite in Father Luis, and your esteemed grandmother? I must get the recipe for these cookies.”

#

Professor Pescador, though she had vexed Miguel at first, was able to give Miguel a word of warning.

“Javier Perez of Guadalajara’s _Evening Post_ will make things up, if he thinks it makes for a good story,” she told Miguel. “He has a way of coaxing more out of people than they want reported. I would advise you not to talk to him.”

Miguel, in the end, spoke to Alma Villasenor, who was the youngest member of staff at Santa Cecilia’s own newspaper – and also a friend of Miguel’s cousin Sandra. Miguel showed Ms. Villasenor her the letters and poems from Papa Hector. She interviewed Sister Consuela, Professor Pescador, and Tomas del Rio. Ms. Villasenor also let Miguel read her column before it was sent to print. She presented the facts, strung together into a compelling narrative, and included a plea that the Riveras’ privacy be respected.

On the fourth Sunday of Advent, all of Santa Cecilia was reading the story.

Neighbors came by the Rivera household with food and apologies. The Ernesto de la Cruz museum closed for the holidays and did not reopen in January.

Abuelita Elena invited Tomas del Rio to celebrate Christmas with the Riveras, and he graciously declined.

“I must be with my family for the holidays,” he explained, adding, “I would not be surprised if by Three Kings’ Day, newspapers all over the country were carrying your story.”

“ _Ay_ , you’re joking,” Miguel said.

“Far from it. You wish to discredit de la Cruz? The truth must spread as far as de la Cruz’ fame. Walk me to the train station, Miguel?”

As they walked to the station, carrying del Rio’s suitcases, Tomas asked Miguel, “You have my address, _si_?”

“I do. And you have mine – um, obviously. We’ll write a lot of letters! And you must visit again. Mama Coco and I are working on some wonderful new songs – I’d love for you to hear them.”

“I look forward to it. But maybe I won’t have to hear them in person.”

“Come again?”

“I might be hearing your songs on the radio before too long.” Tomas smiled at Miguel. “You have your Papa Hector’s talent.”

Miguel’s chest puffed out and he beamed brighter than the poinsettias. “ _Gracias_.”

 


End file.
